Via De Luna Drive. She watched until it turned off into the Hilton Hotel.
They were here .
Her nerves tensed, and she wished she hadn’t had that second Red Bull.
CHAPTER 14
Scott Larsen hadn’t taken time to change out of his suit from Sunday-morning service at First United Christ. Trish was used to him dropping her off at home before he headed over to the funeral home, but this morning she had been on edge about the hurricane.
“We need to start thinking about what we’re going to do,” she nagged at him all the way home. “We probably need some plywood to board up the patio doors.”
“The thing hasn’t even gotten into the Gulf yet,” Scott had countered.
He was impatient with all this worry over something that might not even come their way. Besides, he hated leaving Joe Black the run of his embalming room. The guy insisted Scott give him a key and security code so he could start work. Other than accepting delivery and providing temporary cold storage of a few specimens for Black to pick up en route to one of his doctors’ conferences, this was their first real business dealing.
After months of listening to Joe Black talk—actually there was more insinuation than talk—about the impressive network, the major connections to doctors and medical equipment companies, and all the “big money” there was waiting to be made, Scott hadjumped at the chance when Black finally invited him to be a major player. And Scott had already been paid handsomely for the storage fees. It was Joe who told him how to contract with the county to handle indigents. That little tip would bring in five hundred dollars a shot, just for accepting and processing the bodies. Plus, Joe Black was going to pay him another five hundred each. Scott didn’t have to lift a finger.
It was a win-win situation. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. And it came at just the right time. Trish had long ago overspent their budget on the house they were building. He hadn’t told her that he decided to forgo buying hurricane insurance for it. How was he supposed to afford it when they were still paying renter’s insurance on their condo plus the insurance on the funeral home? Now it was too late. He couldn’t buy insurance after the first of June, when hurricane season started. This one sure as hell better take a turn and stay far away. Then he reminded himself that it wasn’t even in the Gulf.
Some days he truly felt like a transplant down here in Florida. Just last week someone at one of his memorial services called him “a Yankee” and jokingly told him, “But maybe you won’t become a ‘damn Yankee.’”
“What’s a damn Yankee?” Scott wanted to know.
“One that stays.”
Days like this, Scott wondered why he hadn’t insisted they live in Michigan. He’d been lured by those emerald-green waters and sandy beaches. And Trish in a bikini, though she hardly ever wore one now that they were married, even though they lived right on the bay.
Scott drove around the one-story funeral home that looked remarkably like an oversize ranch house. Every time he pulled intothe parking lot he felt a swell of pride. It was all his … his and the bank’s: three viewing rooms, chapel, visitors’ lounge, and corner office. The embalming room and storage facility were in a separate building that connected to the back of the funeral home via an air-conditioned walkway.
He’d added the twenty-five-foot walkway. It was crazy going even that short distance in a suit and tie and getting sweaty from the humidity or drenched from a downpour. He insisted on presenting a clean, crisply pressed appearance. Likewise, his entire place was kept meticulously.
The public areas—the viewing rooms and visitors’ lounge—were vacuumed daily, stocked with fresh flowers, furniture aligned at straight angles with ample room for foot traffic as well as coffin traffic. Even the back area that included the embalming room and walk-in refrigerator was
They were here .
Her nerves tensed, and she wished she hadn’t had that second Red Bull.
CHAPTER 14
Scott Larsen hadn’t taken time to change out of his suit from Sunday-morning service at First United Christ. Trish was used to him dropping her off at home before he headed over to the funeral home, but this morning she had been on edge about the hurricane.
“We need to start thinking about what we’re going to do,” she nagged at him all the way home. “We probably need some plywood to board up the patio doors.”
“The thing hasn’t even gotten into the Gulf yet,” Scott had countered.
He was impatient with all this worry over something that might not even come their way. Besides, he hated leaving Joe Black the run of his embalming room. The guy insisted Scott give him a key and security code so he could start work. Other than accepting delivery and providing temporary cold storage of a few specimens for Black to pick up en route to one of his doctors’ conferences, this was their first real business dealing.
After months of listening to Joe Black talk—actually there was more insinuation than talk—about the impressive network, the major connections to doctors and medical equipment companies, and all the “big money” there was waiting to be made, Scott hadjumped at the chance when Black finally invited him to be a major player. And Scott had already been paid handsomely for the storage fees. It was Joe who told him how to contract with the county to handle indigents. That little tip would bring in five hundred dollars a shot, just for accepting and processing the bodies. Plus, Joe Black was going to pay him another five hundred each. Scott didn’t have to lift a finger.
It was a win-win situation. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. And it came at just the right time. Trish had long ago overspent their budget on the house they were building. He hadn’t told her that he decided to forgo buying hurricane insurance for it. How was he supposed to afford it when they were still paying renter’s insurance on their condo plus the insurance on the funeral home? Now it was too late. He couldn’t buy insurance after the first of June, when hurricane season started. This one sure as hell better take a turn and stay far away. Then he reminded himself that it wasn’t even in the Gulf.
Some days he truly felt like a transplant down here in Florida. Just last week someone at one of his memorial services called him “a Yankee” and jokingly told him, “But maybe you won’t become a ‘damn Yankee.’”
“What’s a damn Yankee?” Scott wanted to know.
“One that stays.”
Days like this, Scott wondered why he hadn’t insisted they live in Michigan. He’d been lured by those emerald-green waters and sandy beaches. And Trish in a bikini, though she hardly ever wore one now that they were married, even though they lived right on the bay.
Scott drove around the one-story funeral home that looked remarkably like an oversize ranch house. Every time he pulled intothe parking lot he felt a swell of pride. It was all his … his and the bank’s: three viewing rooms, chapel, visitors’ lounge, and corner office. The embalming room and storage facility were in a separate building that connected to the back of the funeral home via an air-conditioned walkway.
He’d added the twenty-five-foot walkway. It was crazy going even that short distance in a suit and tie and getting sweaty from the humidity or drenched from a downpour. He insisted on presenting a clean, crisply pressed appearance. Likewise, his entire place was kept meticulously.
The public areas—the viewing rooms and visitors’ lounge—were vacuumed daily, stocked with fresh flowers, furniture aligned at straight angles with ample room for foot traffic as well as coffin traffic. Even the back area that included the embalming room and walk-in refrigerator was
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